


Gentle Execution

by Captain_Loki



Category: This Means War (2012)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Sexual Tension, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-07
Updated: 2012-03-07
Packaged: 2017-11-01 14:25:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Loki/pseuds/Captain_Loki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>FDR is always so damn smug about everything, sometimes Tuck just wants to wipe that cocky smile off his face</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gentle Execution

It’s a little after midnight and the office is quiet and empty, save for Tuck seated rigidly at his desk, glowering at the man opposite him. FDR’s lax in his own chair, his arms crossed over his chest and an eyebrow raised speculatively.

“I thought we were in agreement,” Tuck said finally, breaking the icy silence.

“Complete agreement,” FDR responds, leaning forward, his elbows propped up on his desk. Tuck scoffs.

“I know what you were trying to do,” he says, accusatory.

“Me?” FDR balks out a laugh and shakes his head. “And you were what? Going to roast marshmallows?”

“It was mood lighting, you know…romance…not some sleazy pornographic encounter,” Tuck says, irritated.

“Mood lighting for what? Monoply?” Tuck doesn’t know how to respond to that.

“Oh right, like you’re Mr. Innocence over there, Poster Boy for purity!” Tuck says angrily and FDR just shrugs a little, feigning an innocence Tuck knows he lost at around fifteen.

“You’re right, I should have just left you alone,” FDR replies and Tuck looks surprised for a moment, before FDR opens his mouth again, a phenomenon he’s quite familiar with. “You’re too British to have closed the deal anyway.”

Tuck scoffs angrily and jumps from his seat like it scalded him. FDR gives him an appraising sort of look, Tuck wants to smack it off his smug face.

“Oh, you’re just lucky you stopped me,” Tuck says and FDR actually laughs out loud a little and waits for his explanation. He doesn’t exactly have one. “If I had closed the deal…which I _would_ have…would have ruined all other men for her,” he nods, satisfied. FDR laughs louder, slapping his hand against a thigh and Tuck crosses his arms over his chest in irritation, flushing.

“Would’ve had her running straight for the other team, Tuck?” FDR asks grinning. It takes a moment for the implication to sink in and Tuck scowls.

“Yeah, you’d know all about that wouldn’t you,” he says finally, smiling. FDR’s eyes narrow before they widen surprised and he jumps up too, his chair spinning back away from the desk. He moves around, out from behind it and Tuck follows.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Lacey Walters, sophomore year,” Tuck explains. FDR snaps his fingers and waves his hand in Tuck’s face, he smacks it away.

“That is so not fair! She already knew she was a lesbian! Besides that led to the best threesome of my life!” FDR shouts, maniacally.

“What? With Jill and Handgela?” Tuck asks, holding his hands up and waggling them in front of FDR. FDR narrows his eyes and steps forward, pushing Tuck’s arms down angrily.

“I’m a way better lay than you could ever hope to be… _Mike_ ,” Tuck growls, and he glances down towards FDR’s denim clad crotch, “and Ike,” he says to it, with a snarky little wave. FDR actually makes a gasping sound as he pushes into Tuck’s slowly dwindling personal space.

Tuck’s chest is nearly brushing FDR’s and he can feel the heat radiating off the other man through the thin cotton t-shirt he is wearing. FDR is staring down at him, the light from the overheads catching in his eyes and making the blue seem to sparkle like lit fireworks, just before the bang. And this close, the difference in their heights is all the more obvious, FDR’s head bent forward to stare down at him, and how Tuck hates that, when they’re like this…all testosterone driven, and FDR has a tendency to play it up and point it out.

“Oh yea?” FDR is asking, and it’s ridiculous and so very juvenile, and Tuck remembers the thousands of arguments previously that have started this way and none of them have ever ended with anything but sore muscles and regret.

“Yeah,” he finds himself saying anyway, sharp and angry.

“Prove it,” FDR is grinning at him, like he’s got him beat. Tuck spares a split second for wondering how he is precisely supposed to do that and hence the shit eating grin on his friend’s face. He could back down, he thinks, but no way, and there’s just a moment’s hesitation before the grin turns the corner of his lips up and he’s pleased at the way FDR’s smile falters a fraction. Then Tuck is shrugging and breathing out across FDR’s chin,

“Okay.” FDR looks like he’s about to open his mouth to say something but Tuck wraps a strong hand around the back of his head and moves forward and slams his mouth over FDR’s. It’s not chaste exactly, but there’s no teeth or tongue or messy saliva swapping, it’s all brute force and hard and heavy, it’s like punching FDR in the face…but with his mouth, which is a ridiculous thought, but Tuck supposes he should cut his brain some slack considering.

Tuck’s always been the eye closed kind of kisser, but he doesn’t want to miss a second of the surprise that flits across FDR’s face. When he pulls back finally, FDR’s eyes are comically wide and he looks stunned and speechless and Tuck wants to store that knowledge away for later. But for now, he lays his hand across FDR’s very solid chest and pushes, he doesn’t have to do it hard, though he does, because FDR is completely pliant in this state of absolute shock and he stumbles backward, hitting the desk and overbalancing, slamming ass first against the hard surface littered with unfinished paperwork.

“What in the Hell is happening?!” FDR shouts, looking up at Tuck. Tuck just shrugs again and moves closer, gripping the backs of FDR’s knees and yanking him forward. FDR slides across the desktop on his back, his hands slipping over the wooden surface as he goes.

“You started this,” Tuck tells him, his voice gone low and commanding, and whoa even he’s kind of surprised by this dominating side, because as much as Tuck hates to admit it, FDR is right about his fumbling Britishness. FDR must be thinking the same thing because he’s giving Tuck an appraising sort of look somewhere between impressed and aroused and says,

“So finish it.”

It’s all the affirmation that Tuck needs and he moves forward to stand between FDR’s spread legs and he’s leaning forward until they’re pressed together, hot and hard inside their jeans. FDR’s head drops against the desktop with a thunk as Tuck rolls his hips forward.

He knocks FDR’s hands out of the way as they both start to fumble for their zippers, because now that he’s here, he has no intention of handing over controls. FDR just lets him, watching with amusement as Tuck nearly pops off the button to his jeans in his haste. He gets them down around FDR’s thighs, and he makes an involuntary noise of approval when he finds that FDR isn’t wearing anything underneath them.

FDR’s grin is the dirtiest he’s ever seen, as he stares down at the tenting in Tuck’s jeans.

“Laundry day,” he shrugs. Tuck just lets out a low laugh and pushes FDR’s t-shirt up his chest, staring down at the mostly naked form of his partner stretched out before him, hard length twitching against his stomach as FDR watches him watching. He’s seen FDR naked before of course, locker rooms and hotels on the job, but this is so very different.

“Can’t call it a mike’n’ike,” FDR says and Tuck just kind of laughs and shrugs. FDR balks and swipes at Tuck’s crotch, his finger sliding beneath the waistband of his jeans and tugging him forward to undo the fly and zip.

“Well what are you packing?” He asks, irritated. Tuck grins and lets him find out, FDR’s hands pushing away the fabric of his boxers until he’s closing his hand around Tuck and giving him a few experimental sort of jerks that have Tuck thrusting up, gripping the edge of the desk to steady himself.

FDR doesn’t comment, instead he looks up at Tuck with heavy lidded eyes and gives him another dirty grin. Tuck stumbles forward and he pushes FDR back down against the desk, gripping his forearms firmly against the table, capturing his lips in another rough kiss, this time though, he slips his tongue past FDR’s lips and they grapple. The kiss is long and messy, and Tuck leans forward, his hard cock lining up with FDR’s and he presses them together and thrusts.

FDR is making these groans in the back of his throat and his lips are vibrating against Tuck’s as they slide their tongues over one another, sucking and nipping. Tuck pulls back, his mouth open, but he’s silent as he thrusts in rhythm against FDR, who watches his face like he’s mesmerized. Tuck flushes and ducks his head, pulls back as FDR makes a disappointed sort of keening noise.

Tuck drags FDR up enough to push him rough and sure over onto his stomach, and he shoves him hard for good measure, but it just makes FDR groan louder, rutting against the desktop like he can’t quite help it.

Tuck leans over him again, grips his dick in his hand and slides it up FDR, the tip brushing against his balls and back, sliding hot against his hole and FDR twitches and pushes back against Tuck, hissing out low and moaning ‘like a cheap whore’ which is an FDRism that Tuck usually tries to avoid, but he figures FDR wouldn’t disagree, his face buried in the crook of his elbow, the slope of his back glistening with sweat.

Tuck slides FDR’s legs closed around his cock and he lets out a soft moan at the heat that envelopes him. He presses his chest against FDR’s bare back and starts to move, a facsimile of fucking, his dick sliding against the sweat slicked skin trapped between FDR’s hot strong thighs, brushing against FDR’s opening as his legs fall open, wanting, desperate and needy.

FDR’s cock drags across the desk and he’s groaning low and loud, biting at the flesh of his forearm as Tuck makes slow, hard deliberate thrusts against him. When Tuck bends his head and bites at the flesh of his shoulder hard enough to bruise FDR loses it completely and he bucks up against Tuck, letting out a rush of expletives wrapped around Tuck’s name stuttered over and over as he comes, hard, spilling out onto an unfinished field report.

“That’s it, come for me Foster,” Tuck whispers against him, more to himself than FDR really, and he closes his eyes shut tight and his hips stall and he can feel the orgasm building until he’s coming against the inside of his best mate’s thigh and whimpering softly into FDR’s neck.

When it’s over, they’re sticky and hot and breathing heavy, but neither of them seems prepared to make the first move. FDR tries to roll over with Tuck stuck to his back, and he manages it, Tuck collapsing against his chest and staying there, splayed out and sated.

After what feels like an eternity Tuck finally pulls himself off of FDR, who looks mildly disappointed at the loss of contact. FDR watches as Tuck pulls his jeans up and tucks himself back in, but he makes no move to do the same. He looks wanton and pleased, come smeared across his stomach, his arms stretched up over his head and pillowed beneath his head on the desk behind him, his chest bare and nipples hard.

“You always that quiet during sex?” He asks, curiously. Tuck can feel himself blushing again, but he just sort of shrugs and doesn’t answer.

“You always that _submissive_ ,” he asks instead. FDR just gives him another dirty grin and sits up, finally.

“Guess you’ll just have to find out.” Tuck smirks, kind of pleased as he helps pull FDR’s discarded clothing back on, cleaning up the mess they left across the desk.

“You think I should still hand this in?” FDR asks, and Tuck is a little concerned because he can’t tell if FDR is being serious or not as he holds up the semen stained report.

Tuck just shakes his head and sighs.

“C’mon,” he says, yawning. “I’m hungry,” Tuck tells him and FDR nods his approval.

“Can we get pizza tonight instead of Chinese? I’m craving sausage.” They pause for a moment on the way out the door, Tuck’s brow scrunched ever so slightly, as they ponder the statement before FDR laughs loudly and throws his arm around Tuck’s shoulder steering him towards the elevator.

Meanwhile, one floor below, a team of perplexed, slightly disturbed, incredibly confused agents stare dumbfounded at the surveillance screens before them. They turn to each other, red faced and awkward, until a lone voice cracks the palpable silence descending between them,

“Do you think they forget they asked us to meet them here at 1:00?”


End file.
